


strange addiction

by essiefied



Category: Fast and the Furious Series, Hobbs & Shaw (2019)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essiefied/pseuds/essiefied
Summary: The thing is—Hobbs had always assumed Shaw was a beta.-----Hobbs is an alpha. Shaw is a beta. Or maybe an alpha. Hobbs isn't really sure, and it doesn't really matter, until suddenly it does.
Relationships: Luke Hobbs/Deckard Shaw
Comments: 22
Kudos: 146





	strange addiction

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr prompt requesting shobbs a/b/o reveal fic.
> 
> warning in advance, chapters will likely be pretty short.

Hobbs wouldn’t really consider himself genderist. **  
**

Sure, he’s an alpha—and he’s not particularly shy about it, either. He doesn’t really mind walking the stereotypical path of having the size and the brawn and the swaggering intensity to back up his orientation, doesn’t shy away from playing the part. He enjoys it. The dominance that comes with that territory feels second nature, and it works for him.

But he’s well aware that’s not always the case.

Hobbs doesn’t subscribe to the bullshit; the rhetoric that says a person’s orientation dictates their behavior, that spouts nonsense about betas walking so alphas can run, about omegas needing protection and pampering above all others for their delicate constitutions. Partly because he’s not an asshole, and partly because he’d been smacked upside the head as a posturing teenager one too many times by his very omega mother to ever really believe she needed anything along the lines of _protection._

He’s a liberal guy. Pays his taxes without complaint, votes in favor of cleaner air and military gender desegregation. Even dated another alpha or two, through the years. 

He’s a single alpha dad with a nine year old omega daughter, and he knows better than to let bias steer his judgement.

But the thing is—Hobbs had always assumed Shaw was a beta.

***

Well. Maybe not at first.

The first time he meets Deckard Shaw, when they’re throwing each other through walls and tables and desks and everything in between, demolishing the office space around them, squaring up and prowling around each other like a couple of bristling predators—beta isn’t the impression Hobbs gets.

It’s pure, unadulterated _alpha._

Hobbs senses it the instant his gaze lands on Shaw, feels it in the way the other man holds himself: tightly coiled, like a tiger looking for the moment to spring. There’s wildfire in his eyes when he turns towards Hobbs.

And as their eyes lock, Hobbs’ own alpha rises up to meet it, interest piqued.

It likes the tension in the air. Likes the way Shaw’s brimming with the kind of righteous fury that could burn the world down around him, and fuck the consequences. From the second Shaw turns away from the computer screen and _looks_ at him, hatred etched into the lines of his face, Hobbs knows this is a man who’s come to prove something.

And Hobbs gets it. He understands what Shaw’s doing here, the way any alpha would. In that split second he even comes close to feeling—not _sorry_ for Shaw, but regretful, maybe, because he’s seen the medical reports. They’re tucked into a file labeled **_O. S._** in the corner cabinet of his office, with pictures of the damage Hobbs and Toretto and the rest of them had played their parts in inflicting.

Vivid images of Owen Shaw’s face charred to unholy hell, half of it nearly unrecognizable.

They’re jarring, and not something Hobbs is particularly proud of. He can’t imagine how Deckard Shaw felt, seeing that kind of shit up close and personal on the face of his baby brother.

Thing is, nine times out of ten Hobbs prefers bringing in his targets over putting ‘em down. For the sake of his own conscience if nothing else. He doesn’t want to bring that kind of damage home, to Sam and the rest of his life. Doesn’t like the way the blood on his hands lingers. Hobbs isn’t _that kind_ of alpha, the one that enjoys the hunt _and_ the kill, the way a few of the other agents he’s had the displeasure of working with over the years could be. So Owen Shaw may have brought his own fate down on himself with his schemes and his games, but it didn’t mean the outcome was the one Hobbs was looking for when he started that chase.

And part of him, some strange impulse in the back of his head, wants to tell Shaw that. Tell him that yeah—he _gets it._

Because if word came that someone’d put down one of _his_ brothers like that, wrecked them so badly they were breathing through a tube and dead to the world for months on end, he’d—he’d probably do the same.

Let the primal part of his instincts take over. Bulldoze his way through the world until the culprit was a fine paste beneath his boot.

It’s an alpha’s job, isn’t it? Vengeance.

And it’s one Shaw seems to take seriously, going by the way he launches Hobbs’ own desk into his gut, and launches _himself_ right after it.

He comes quicker than Hobbs can predict. There’s no time to brace himself for the impact; he takes the kick to the face, and goes down harder from it than expected. He rolls to his feet, still pulling his senses back into place, and takes another two fast hits to the jaw before wrapping his arms around Shaw and throwing him bodily through the next two glass partitions.

Hobbs can feel his blood rushing, the sweet buzz of adrenaline on his skin, and he huffs out a breath of excitement as his opponent comes wheeling back for more.

Shaw, he finds, fights like a _goddamn devil._

The man’s strong. Not as strong as Hobbs, maybe, but he makes up for it in everything else. He’s quick, and wiley, and can take a right hook to the face like nobody’s business, and it’s a damn shame that he’s the bad guy here, because Hobbs can’t help but enjoy this. It’s been a long time since someone’s challenged him like this, and his alpha’s snarling almost gleefully in the back of his head over it.

 _This_ is what he’d been missing earlier in the day, when his target had rolled over like a dog. Elena had pinned him as disappointed, and she’d been right, goddamnit, because the way Hobbs’ heart is pounding in his chest feels like the rush only a drug can give. He can’t get enough of it. Wants more.

It’s a bit distracting. Hobbs blames that for the way Shaw lands a one-two-three series of hits on him, shoving his foot into Hobbs’ gut with a punishing kick, before throwing his entire body forward and sending them both flying down into the desk below them.

 _Jesus,_ he thinks, and it’s less an expletive and more a praise.

Hobbs can’t tell if his alpha’s furious or _turned the fuck on_ when he crashes through the table and to the floor beneath it, Shaw still wrapped around him like a snarling wildcat, but he’s betting it’s somewhere in between.

There’s not much time to appreciate the feeling, though, between the burst of pain up his back and Shaw dragging him up to his feet for more. Hobbs meets him with a knee to the gut for the trouble.

From there it’s a dance. Shaw lashes out with a punch, blocks Hobbs’ own, meets him with a kick to the knee and an elbow to the face. Hobbs stumbles back, then surges forward, puts in a few hits of his own, crashes his head against Shaw’s in a move that has him tasting blood on his own tongue. And then, with a roar of self-assured triumph, he wraps an arm around Shaw’s neck and lifts him in the air. Shaw kick out, eyes widening in realization, but it does’t save him from Hobbs heaving him forcefully down into the glass tabletop below.

It shatters. Shaw crashes through it and hits the ground with a crunching thud, Hobbs following from above.

The move must’ve done the trick, because afterwards, for the first time since the fight began, it’s quiet. The whirlwind of fists and kicks and rage settles.

Shaw lays still, a dazed look in his eyes.

Hobbs’ heart is still hammering, excitement and aggression clouding his mind. And before he can stop to think, to take the brief reprieve where Shaw’s lying winded underneath him to regroup and get the upper hand, his instincts surge to the foreground with an intensity that overwhelms every shred of common sense.

He turns his face to Shaw’s neck, drags his nose against the stubble at his throat, and _inhales._

Shaw grunts, but Hobbs ignores it, because the desire to get a whiff of the man’s scent is almost maddening. Hobbs’ alpha is eager for it, clawing forward, craving the heady fight-or-flight smell of adrenaline and anger and blood that it just _knows_ that Shaw’s putting off, practically knocking the doors down for just a second to lunge forward and breathe him in— 

But nothing meets him.

No rusty hint of blood. No tang of adrenaline.

No scent.

Just the faint smell of plain soap, with a sharp underlying hint of chemicals.

 _Scent blockers,_ Hobbs thinks, disappointment flooding through him.

His hand slides up to the base of Shaw’s throat and rests there for just a second, twitching, and the insane urge to stay down, stay _close_ hits him. He wants to pin Shaw’s hands to the ground. Wants to wrap his fingers around Shaw’s neck and _press._ Squeeze just enough until the man’s whining with it.

He wants to dominate him. Show Shaw who the _real_ alpha was, here.

It’s that thought that snaps Hobbs out of it, though, and has him jerking up and away in surprise, because _what the fuck is he doing?_

He reels back up onto his knees and stares down at Shaw, wide-eyed.

This ain’t him. He needs to get his head on straight, because his instincts are flying off the rails into overdrive. Hobbs hasn’t been this out of his own mind over a fight in years, not since he was a punk kid in basic training and picking battles with anyone who’d give it to him, and it’s unsettling.

It feels animalistic, almost. He’s a bit ashamed of himself for the lack of control. 

Hobbs pushes himself up, and pulls his hand away from Shaw’s neck as though burned.

“Goddamn I.T. guys,” he mutters, mostly to distract himself from the fact that his eyes instinctively dart down to admire the way Shaw’s sprawled beneath him, head tipped back, bearing the line of his throat.

 _Jesus Christ, Hobbs,_ he thinks, swallowing dryly, working desperately to get his shit together. The man’s come to outright murder him, and he’s salivating over it like a dog.

Pathetic.

He pulls himself up and tears his eyes away instead, glancing towards the nearby cabinet where he knows for a fact one of the junior officers keeps a spare set of cuffs—

And immediately stumbles when a sharp, blinding pain rockets up from his thighs as broken glass slices mercilessly through each of them.

Christ on a _fucking_ cracker, but that hurt.

Hobbs doesn’t know how Shaw manages to move quick enough, but in the next moment a light fixture slams into his skull, and he’s falling back, tripping over the sofa and sliding beneath the table behind. He blinks the stars out of his eyes, before his gaze fixes onto the upper corner of the desk above him.

A _gun._ Hobbs could kiss whatever bastard ignored basic safety protocols by leaving their firearm unprotected at their desk, because he’s taking full advantage of it now.

He grabs the weapon, swings around to aim, and doesn’t have an ounce of regret as he pulls the trigger on Shaw, because this bullshit’s gone far enough.

Everything goes downhill from there.

There’s Elena, and the bomb, and the explosion, and falling, and then _pain—_

It all gets a bit blurry, after that.


End file.
